Steve Havey's Big Time. Football. Good Women. Bad Boys. The Odor of My Grave. Dog the Bounty Hunter

Few people make good show hosts. They get desperate to prove that the show is more about them than whatever it is the show is about.

Steve Harvey is an asshole. I guess he’s just trying hard to justify his existence on the screen and suggest that it wouldn’t be an interesting show without him.

Well, it wouldn’t. But then again, watching a fat man stuff himself through a hula-hoop isn’t that interesting to begin with.

And without a doubt, the show would be a lot less annoying if Harvey would just shut up.

--All those Michael Vick commercials are cool.

Too bad he can’t play that way.

And the Raiders are dead.


--I’ve know a few very good people very well. JH. JT. AJ. MK. LK. RE. JA. FB. CM. LB. Sometimes, I’d even include RS.

These are all the names of girls.

That’s no coincidence. How well can one man know another, except for through what he knows of himself?

And most of that is bad.

--It reminds me of a time I accidentally cut myself deeply in Beirut.

Two friends took me for stitches. We had wrapped the wound in washrags and AJ drove.

There is a funny story in the stitching, how the doctors didn’t think I understood Arabic well enough to gather they were fighting over the quality of the sewing and the means by which it should be done.

Then there was the student who worked at the hospital and was told to give a tetinus shot in the ass.

She was pretty.
I don’t like shots.

So I was nervous and making small talk.

“What will you do after?” I asked her. I meant after she finished her studies. I was on the table with my pants pulled down and she was hovering over my ass with a needle. I was just trying to delay the stab.

At that moment, one of my friends, a lovely girl, FB, came into the doorway to see how things were going. It was bad enough for her to see me bare and vulnerable like that, but what made it worse was that she was there just in time to witness the nurse mistakenly think I was asking her out.

FB turned away blushing and the nurse babbled some response about her plans for the night and the needle descended.

--In any case, the owner of the car, the other girl, AJ, one of the few living saints I know, fed—and still feeds—stray cats. We’d drive around campus and even around the city with bags of food.

Her car begin to stink. I didn’t have the heart to tell her, but I imagined a cat or kitten had crawled into the engine or some other place and died.

We sought for the source of the smell, but it was nowhere to be found.
It got worse and worse over the course of a week.

And then finally, AJ peeled up the floor mat. Beneath it one of the washrags had somehow gotten stuck and flattened. It was covered in my blood and from that blood grew a strange mold and that mold and that rotting blood were the source of the odor.

And I thought: this is what I will smell like before they bury me.

--What do I want from a girl?

No easy answer.

The last girl that really got under my skin did so because she liked to watch me play football. That’s now how she enamored me to her exactly. It was just an example of the appreciation of my physicality that I liked in her.

I need that.

And I need that she should be unabashed and relentless and full of light.

I need much more than I deserve.

Thank God or genetics that I have the nature of a thief.

--How good is Dog the Bounty Hunter with a parallelism?

“Two days ago we were weeks behind (our bounty). Yesterday we were days behind. Now we’re just hours behind. And a little while from now, we’ll be inches behind.”

The son, though, Leland, he seems like a good kid.